


En Garde

by ljs



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2013-11-20
Packaged: 2018-01-02 04:21:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ljs/pseuds/ljs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after 1X08, "Necromancer." </p>
<p>Of swords, stories, and connections.</p>
            </blockquote>





	En Garde

Abbie is at the top of the stairs leading to the Archive Room when she hears a rumble of voices, a flurry of footsteps. She has only enough time to step back and protect her coffee cup before Jenny and Captain Irving emerge, still in mid-conversation.

“I still don’t see why a taser wouldn’t be a good present for your daughter, she needs protection in this world,” Jenny says to the Captain, which prompts an epic why-Lord-why eye-roll from him. Abbie can’t stop her grin, which brightens when Jenny glances at her and adds, “Your boy’s downstairs. And I’ll pick up milk on the way home. Soy okay?”

“Sure. And cereal,” Abbie says. “Thanks.”

“You got money for that?” he says to Jenny as they walk away. “I suppose I could raid the petty cash again. So many ‘consultants’ these days.”

“Raid the petty cash? Pilfering? You don’t want to break the _law_ , Frank, do you?” Jenny says, and he hisses a sigh.

That exchange sends Abbie down the stairs on a wave of laughter. Yeah, it’s been a hard few days – hell, a hard few weeks, the world she knew all turned upside down, the world she feared coming out in the open – but there have been real compensations. Like her sister coming home.

Like the sight of Crane standing in a pool of lamplight, pointing a gleaming sword at a skull.

“What are you doing?” she says. “Pretty sure the skull can’t fight back.”

(It’s not the Horseman’s. That horrible precious thing has been moved again. This one came out of the cupboards; Crane alone knows why he wanted it.)

He flushes a little and lowers his sword. “Good evening, Lieutenant.”

“Hi,” she says. “And you’re doing what?”

He does his fidgeting thing, shifting his weight, his long fingers fluttering around the hilt of the sword. “I was bested too easily by the Horseman, there at the end. I’m out of practice.”

“We both know that most of the time he carries an assault rifle these days. The sword was probably a one-time deal.” She puts her coffee down beside his now omnipresent mug of tea and smiles at him, willing her good mood to reach him. 

“If the Horseman is still yet fixed on my betrayal –“

“It wasn’t a betrayal, I told you.”

“Yes, you told me.” He manages to return her smile. “I promised to listen to your admonitions, and that is no exception.”

“Seems like you haven’t taken it to heart,” she says. “That’s also part of the deal.”

“’Deals’ seem to be so fluid these days,” he murmurs, then, “In any event, he chose swords there at the end. He gave me one. At our next meeting he might wish to continue the duel in order to secure his win.”

“Okay, there, you’re doing it again. Moping. Guilty-moping.” She steps toward him. “So don’t.”

His smile curves around into honest amusement. “Lieutenant, I didn’t say he _would_ win. My practice is to ensure he doesn’t.”

He steps aside – he’s thoughtful, he wouldn’t point that thing at her even as a joke – and assumes a fighting position, sword straight and true in front of him, his other hand behind him in an elegant balancing move.

It’s ridiculously attractive, emphasis on the ‘ridiculous.’ Okay, and the ‘attractive.’

“Check you,” she says, “looking like you’re gonna start dancing.”

He lowers the sword again. “Indeed, the gentlemanly art of killing one another was as ritualized as a dance. The first time I saw a threatened fight….” He looks away. 

She sits down, pushes aside the books he’s pulled on breaking into any number of hells, and rests her chin on her hand. “Story.”

“Must I? It’s of no importance.”

“I’ll be the judge of that. Sit.” She points to his usual place. “ _Story_ , Crane. Which Founding Father did you watch fight?”

“Oh no, it was long before that.” He pivots, the sword flashing in the light, and then drops down into his seat in one smooth movement. But he doesn’t meet her eyes. “It was at a gentleman’s club in London. I had no real business being there, too young, too green. However, it was the long vac at university, and I was visiting my cousin Rupert in London. He took me.”

She thinks of candlelight on white face after white face, the oxygen of privilege every-damn-where in those rich hidden rooms. It’s amazing, she thinks, that Crane is who he is. Still – “So what happened?”

“I was but a witness,” he starts, and then laughs at himself. “Not that sort, even though the sword drawn belonged to Satanas.”

“ _Satan_ belonged to your cousin’s club? Nice,” she says, and sips her coffee.

He laughs again. “No, no. The Duke of Avon, whose sobriquet in Society was Satanas.”

So very many things to make fun of, but she contents herself with, “Duke, huh.”

“That is beside the point.” He touches the blade. “It was mostly a jest, the Duke having left his wild ways upon marriage some years previously. But there was a verbal skirmish, and a dare, and, well. Satanas drew his sword and said ‘En garde,’ and I marked particularly his stance. It seemed… elegant.”

She surveys him. Crane always seems elegant, even in that centuries-old coat and slightly threadbare shirt. He’s graceful even when he’s stumbling around. It’s a special kind of balance, of control and order.... What was that saying he’d repeated? “ _Ordo ab chao_.”

“In a completely different sense, but yes, if you like.” His hand slides toward hers, but doesn’t touch; his other hand is on his sword. “It was a destructive order, that world I left. Elegance is not always a virtue.”

“I agree. But it isn’t always a bad thing, either.” She slides her own hand past his and touches the flat of the blade. 

It’s smooth and cool, this weapon, and elegant. It requires a different balance from a gun, she thinks. Different kind of strength. She remembers her first trip to the firing range with Corbin, the security she felt in having something – and someone – to fight back with at last. She likes that she has someone still. 

She moves her hand so she’s covering Crane’s long fingers. “Teach me?”

He links their hands – they do that now, ever since that moment in the other underground room, with poison and tears between them. “Are you sure? This effort may well take time away from our duties.”

“What’s the good of our duties if we don’t enjoy the ride?” she says. 

Laughing now, he says, “I feel sure there’s an error somewhere in your thinking, but I find the idea too pleasant to reject.” With that grace she relies on, he stands, and, using their connection, helps her to her feet. 

There in the lamplight, he puts the sword in her hand. It’s heavier than she expected, but oh, the sweet balance of it….

“May I adjust your hand on the hilt, Lieutenant?” Crane says and at her nod he comes behind her, warm, strong, and reaches over her to move her fingers into a better place. He doesn’t step back right away, either.

She closes her eyes, taking in the moment, and then opens them. “Okay. What was it you said that started the duel? The words?”

“ _En garde_ ,” he says quietly into her ear.

And this asshole says he doesn’t have game. Jeez.

“ _En garde_ ,” she says, meaning it in every damn way there is, and makes the blade flash in the lamplight.

**Author's Note:**

> The Duke of Avon is, of course, a character in Georgette Heyer's _These Old Shades_ and _Devil's Cub_. Stealth crossover!


End file.
